


Le tact

by larissabernstein



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, F/M, Masturbation, Other, erotically charged fondling of sheet music, solo for Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: The infamous Fantôme de l’Opéra was a highly perceptive and sensual being - and what a curse it was to waste all these riches on such a wretched creature of the dark. Erik acknowledged the cruel irony of the gift the gods had bestowed on him, the outcast dwelling in solitude: of all his formidable senses, his tactile sense was hyper-acute, sharpened to the force of a weapon - a weapon pointed on both ends.





	Le tact

**Author's Note:**

> Firmly ALW with just a very tiny touch of Leroux & Kay. And when I say ALW, I mean the West End stage production with the original OG, and especially the promo video that blessed us with so many beautiful shots of his hands.

**Le tact**

 

The infamous _Fantôme de l’Opéra_ was a highly perceptive and sensual being - and what a curse it was to waste all these riches on such a wretched creature of the dark. Erik acknowledged the cruel irony of the gift the gods had bestowed on him, the outcast dwelling in solitude: of all his formidable senses, his tactile sense was hyper-acute, sharpened to the force of a weapon - a weapon pointed on both ends.

He rarely took off his gloves in public for fear of sensory overload. Granted, the smooth black leather also added an extra air of eccentricity and drama to his outfit, and it protected his hands when he went about his untoward business as _Fantôme_. There was also the minor concern of leaving fingerprints on the instructions he wrote to the managers of his opera house - but it was a very minor concern indeed. These bumbling fools would not even think about testing his letters with iodine fumes, and even if they were to give in to such modern fancies, he had never been forced to leave his mark in any law enforcement record. There was nothing on file for him that could have been used for comparison. However, the mere thought of leaving any _human_ (and at this, he shuddered) traces on documents meant to have been written by a shadow-laden spectre made out of fears and rumours, was abhorrent to him.

In the very privacy of his subterranean home, however, the gloves seldom stayed on. A foolish decision, maybe, given this trait - no, weakness -, but too big was the temptation: He yearned to touch, to feel, to let his hands roam over surfaces of the most diverse kind. The polished mahogany of his desk, smooth and even, its grain so fine it was hardly there at all. The lush velvet pillows in his sitting room, that were downright inviting his hands to stroke them. The delicate silk and lace of the wedding gown he had designed and created himself for a bride that might never become his. This piece in particular held a multitude of contrasting sensations - from sleek and cool fabric, over somewhat coarser playful ruffles and pearl-embroidered trimmings, to the almost ghostly thinness and transparency of the matching veil, topped only by the challenging stiffness of the corseted bodice that called for a bolder grasp. The dress was his design, after all - by his hand and for his hand. All of his own clothes were chosen with intent and purpose, and not without great care in regard to his tactile sensitivities and preferences. But the wedding dress, this one piece of clothing so hopelessly devoid of any actual use, took the place of pride among the textiles in his home.

There was, however, one particular sensation that could - if not compete - so at least hold its ground. What could be sweeter and more satisfying than the feel of a completed piece of sheet music under his hands? It was flesh of his own flesh - but sans the inevitable disgust and horror of his own wicked body. It was everything - and the only thing - he would ever so much as come close to associate with beauty of his own making, his own beauty. A numinous outpour of his genius, channelled through organ or voice, then finally and most miraculously jotted down onto paper to keep the volatile angel chained to a physical entity other than his living corpse. Whether full score or piano reduction, whether fully-fledged composition or first draft, it bore the marks of his mind and carried a part of his soul within. Even the most dramatic and rebellious creations, yes, even his outright scandalous and outrageous works, would shine with tempestuous beauty and tell his story without the damning scars. Distortions and abnormities were nothing to be feared anymore, but promised a dissonant potential that maybe only generations to come would be able to fully comprehend.

It was one of these evenings again when restless yearning commanded his entire being and drove him to the brink of madness. He had just returned from Christine’s triumphant debut in _Hannibal_ , her voice still in his ears, this dulcet but strong declaration of heavenly glory. It was shameful, really, but he had snuck out earlier than intended, had left his hiding spot in box five in what could only be called a hasty retreat to at least try to preserve his last shred of dignity. The terror of the sublime burnt in his traitorous body and mind, making his limbs twitch and the hands at his side involuntarily open and close, in a desperate spasm. Not only her divine voice had moved him deeply, but her courage and dedication - how she had let herself go on the wings of the music, how she had become one with her art, in utter abandon, lost in the moment, keeping the audience captivated in silent astonishment! When even those philistine fools were reduced to a puddle of tears by this goddess, then what was _he_ supposed to become - he who was probably the only one in this damn _Opera_ able to fully grasp and appreciate her art? She would be his undoing. If he could only touch..., yes, grab the notes sung and offered and keep them forever, handfuls of air and sound that he could wear like a cloak to soothe him, excite him, caress him… He would bury his unclothed hands in those tendrils of melody as if they were her curls, comb through them with his bare fingers, let them wrap around him…-

Stop! He had to put a stop to this. Cursing himself he quit his restless, panicked pacing. It would do no good to run a hole into the ornate carpet of his parlour, while his threadbare heart worked itself into a frenzy of longing and despair.

He owed his goddess a proper laudation, needed to offer his humble congratulations from behind the mirror. The student had bested the master, on more than one level. Not that she would ever get to know the extent of her power over him, the things she did to him! But there was no time to wallow in self-pity and pathetic arousal when his angel was surely expecting his reassuring words after the performance. He would do what any normal man would do: attend to his shameful needs in as perfunctory a way as possible, then compose himself with his usual control, and return to the cruel world above to be what she required him to be: her faithful angel, respectable teacher, caring friend.

Hastily he went into his bathroom, throwing his gloves onto the small table next to the washbasin mid-step, and leant back against the cool glazed tiles. He eased down the trousers of his evening suit and his drawers just enough to free his erection. The touch of first the fine wool, then the smooth silk under his hands was intoxicating, and it clearly felt like a disappointing loss when he finally grasped his own hard flesh. Too real, too human, too damning was this part of his anatomy that no other eyes and hands than his own should ever have to confront. Disgust filled him as he set to work. He would purge these filthy longings from his unworthy body, alright, evict the demons before he could face his angel once more. He set up a harsh, relentless pace, fucking into his left fist in an almost brutal way. His sensitive hand protested the abuse, threatened to cramp up, and he was torn between focusing on the sensations in his… this terrible appendage, and the sensory onslaught on his hand. Engorged and heavy, the scarless skin taut and deceptively smooth, filled with living, burning blood that a corpse such as his ought not possess, this cock made a mockery of his existential plight. The palm of his hand wanted to recoil from it, with each pass over the prominent veins. Erik’s breathing grew heavier, less from arousal than from the labour he put into stroking from root to tip and back. It was just a bodily function that needed attention, just a base need, just… Her voice sang in his mind, her softness surrounded him, but he banished those images as soon as they threatened to overtake him. No, he would not use her for his ghastly pleasure, would not give in to the temptation. He felt sweat bead on his forehead, under his mask; his eyes stung with unshed tears, and still there was no redemption in sight, no relief, no mercy. He let go of the trousers that he had still held up with his right hand, letting them slide down his legs until they bunched up somewhere mid-calf, and took a firm hold of his bollocks. This should do the trick, it had to, please, just… But as much as he chased the little death - and, oh, how he would have welcomed the real death now, to end this pitiful scene, this humiliation - it kept eluding him. Like Tantalos he was taunted by the sweet fruits of life, always so close, so near, but yet out of his grasp, pleasure forever denied.

With a hoarse scream, he wrenched his hands away from his body, and whirled around to hit his fists against the tiled wall. Damn him, curse him, to hell with this body, this spawn of the devil! Rage flooded his brain, only exacerbated by his unfulfilled lust, and he almost wished for a mirror, this one mundane object he feared most, just so that he could smash it into a thousand shards, draw blood, invite a pain that was at least under his own control. Why, why, why…

Christine - she would soon be about to leave the stage, undoubtedly after several rounds of rapturous applause. She would return to her dressing room, a glamorous new star, admired and desired by the masses. And she would wait in vain for her maestro to pay his respects to her.

Maniacal laughter started to bubble up in him, warring with sobs - oh the insanity of it all! Yes, yes, he had truly lost his mind, there was no denying it. If at least he could put his tragedy into music. The gates of hell were thrown open wide, but music would not care about his sins and shortcomings. If anything, it would transform them into art, a devilish insight into the soul of a troubled erotomaniac - _Don Juan_ at least could make good use of his pain. Ah, and wasn’t it the fate of every true genius, to suffer for their art, wade through the depths of their own personal hell to gift the world with a glimpse of heaven?

He picked himself up from the bathroom floor, packed away - with mild embarrassment - the hardness that had not flagged much despite his outburst, and went straight to the grand pipe organ in the middle of the parlour. Freshly lined manuscript paper was stacked to one side, but he was drawn to one of his earlier, unfinished drafts that he had left on the music rack. There was this part in the overture which most significantly deviated from the traditional Italian form; it was undoubtedly one of his boldest moves, foreshadowing his anti-hero’s inner struggle. More than just setting the mood, it was meant to cast a demonic shadow on the introduction, paint in quick brush strokes Don Juan’s agitated melancholia - all too often just glossed over in other adaptions - and his erotic chase of a fulfilment that could only exist in the fleeting moment, never last beyond.

Erik picked up the sheet and hummed along to the music unfolding in his head. The good-quality paper had a familiar and comforting weight to it, feeling simply right in his hands; it thrilled him to dip the quill into the inkwell and add more notes to the draft. Maybe it seemed ridiculous, but he swore he could feel the additional weight with every note that took its rightful place in the theme. It was a story of mania and obsession, pulling the protagonist deeper into the circles of hell, with love and redemption not a promise but a hope against hope. What other mirror had he need of?

The manuals behaved exceptionally well tonight, submitting to the dance of his hands and giving voice to the new development in his composition. Their ivory keys were like the softest caress to his fingertips, kissing them gently and still not dying, kissing them more forcefully and still asking for more. The organ was hungry for his touch, and he was not going to forsake it. If he stopped every few minutes it was only to jot down their shared passion on the sheet, to leave marks he could revisit later and thus defy the precarious moment. His body buzzed with excitement, from the tip of his toes that moved over the pedalboard, to his ears that glowed with rosy warmth, and down again into his lower abdomen where heat gathered and pulsed.

Not even fifteen minutes had passed since he’d picked up the draft, and he felt his composition coming together so easily that it made him whole and new from the inside out. When he finally had two completed sheets in front of him, the ink almost completely dry, there was something close to… happiness, no, accomplishment, that took over his mind. Yes, he was still a wretched monster, undeserving and sinful, but he was also a master of his art, a genius. There was a place for him in this world, this unique world at least that manifested itself on a piece of sheet music. With the adoration of a lover he let his long and expressive fingers stroke tenderly over the completed pages. The contrast between the blank spaces, where raw paper showed its true face, and the dots and lines of his music, these intricate patterns where the dried ink had added its weight and made the paper a bit harder, a bit coarser to the touch, this contrast was almost dizzying. He could close his eyes and follow the notation only by feeling his way in the dark, along the cartography of his music. Even the one or two places where he had scratched out a note and made a correction, felt right; these scars on the sheets were testament to the passionate play of his creative process. Again he splayed his fingers and caressed the sheets, lingered here and there, with possessive gestures, and there was no question that the music touched him in turn, he could feel it on his skin, taste the arousal on his tongue. It made him ache all over, but in a sweet and intoxicating way, a feedback loop between creation and creator, stirring and heightening his senses. He felt his lungs draw great breaths, his chest heaving with a wave of euphoria that not even the purest morphine could induce, his ears ringing both with his music and the blood rushing through his body, every part of him tingling and trembling, so alive, so alive and living! A full body tremor shook him and wrung him dry, sucking the tension out of him with violent insistence, his fingers still on the sheet music, but his head floating high in the clouds of imagination.

 

Twenty minutes (and a change of clothes) later, Erik found himself in the hidden passageway that would lead him to the mirror in Christine’s dressing room, once more in full control of his movements, composed and poised, and ready to make his appearance. It was only then that he noticed that his hands were still uncovered, his trusted pair of leather gloves forgotten deep down in his cellar, somewhere between the coordinates of rapture and despair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
